hurled it out into the desert, where it cracked and rolled to a stop in the dust. Then I turned back to the trailer. The close-up props and some of the smaller items—the lockbox, the collapsing chest—had survived the crash intact. Grand illusion wouldn’t be in the program anymore, but we would still be able to put on a show.
The show. Lone Arrow. Shit.
I reached into my back pocket, but my phone wasn’t there. It must still be on the bus, probably knocked to the floor when we went off the road. As I jogged toward the RV, I noticed that the engine hatch and the fuel filter compartment were open, but Dad was nowhere in sight.
I opened the door and then froze. Dad was standing on the top step with my phone pressed to his ear. He stared straight ahead and didn’t acknowledge my presence.
“I see,” he said into the phone. “No. That won’t be necessary.”
Finally, he looked down at me. I couldn’t read his expression, but he was paler now than he had been moments after the accident. I grasped the handrail and waited.
“Thank you.” He ended the call and leaned heavily on the dash.
“Sharon from Lone Arrow called,” he said.
My heart slowed: it hadn’t been Flynn or Grace. Thank God.
“I explained about the accident. She understands. She’ll book us some other night.”
“That’s good,” I said.
Dad looked down at the phone. “Then another call came in. Las Vegas area code.”
I stiffened.
“I thought it must be the Tack & Saddle.” He inhaled sharply through his nose. “It was Jif Higgins.”
The breath rushed out of my lungs like air from a breached spacecraft.
“He said—he said you tried to rent my old . . . that vehicle.” Dad looked at me, his jaw tight.
This wasn’t how he was supposed to find out. Not like this. Not now. He wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready.
“He said you told him we’d booked a live television appearance. Flynn and . . . He . . .” A laugh burst out of him, a dry, ugly sound like an old car backfiring. “Ellie,” he said, his lips drawn back in a grimace. “Tell me he’s a liar.”
I tightened my grip on the handrail, tried to moisten my tongue, tried to speak. But all I could do was shake my head.
Dad’s eyes went unfocused. When he spoke, his voice was gravel and ash. “You want to make a fool of me. Is that it?”
I shook my head again.
“You want to humiliate me. Show everyone what a miserable failure I am.”
“No, Dad. That’s not—”
“Goddamn it, Ellie!” He pounded the dashboard.
I flinched.
“You had no right. You had no fucking right!” He raised the phone high in one hand and hurled it at floor. It hit with a crack and tumbled down the steps to rest at my feet. Dad moved toward me, and I backed away like a frightened dog, my body moving of its own accord.
I had never seen him so furious.
He blew past me and strode toward the back of the RV, feet crunching on the gravel. I watched him for a moment, then leaned over and picked up the phone. The screen had spiderwebbed, but I could still read most of the display.
Clutching the phone in shaking hands, I sat down on the steps. I had to make this right. I had to fix it. I collected myself and got to my feet.
I found Dad squatting near the back tire, shining his small Maglite under the carriage. He sensed my presence, turned off the flashlight, stood.
“Does the phone still work?” he asked without looking at me.
“I think so,” I said, offering it up.
He took it gently and began to walk to the front of the RV.
“The axle is broken,” he said. “We’re going to need a ride.”
Dad rode shotgun in the big rig that picked us up, while I curled up in the bunk behind the trucker. He was a big man with a marine corps tattoo who chain-smoked Marlboros and blared old-school metal. The smoke masked the body odor that seemed to permeate the cab, and the music drowned out any possibility of conversation. I was grateful for both.
I had crashed the RV just east of Sun Valley, Arizona. We didn’t have enough money for a cab, let alone a flatbed tow truck, and we couldn’t afford impound fees; so Dad removed the license plates from the RV and the trailer, then walked to the side of the highway and stuck out his thumb. When